Rowena Crest

Variety being the spice of life, those of us living in the Pacific Northwest are well-seasoned. We got a little taste this week. First, we took my brother-in-law and niece hiking at Eagle Creek in the Gorge. They were anxious to be on the road to head home to Idaho, so our hike became more of a march. We were finished by noon.

It seemed like such a waste to go home from the Gorge at noon. My husband and I opted to try someplace new to us on this damp, May day. We continued east, exited at Mosier and took the Old Columbia River Highway to Rowena Crest and the Tom McCall Preserve.

From the drizzly forest of Eagle Creek to the wide open and breezy meadow at Rowena was quite a transition. Out on the plateau, we are at turkey vulture level and they soared by us, riding the brisk wind. Brown grasses nod and wave as we walk the path. Several varieties of wildflowers weave through the grass. Oaks (including poison) fringe small ponds along the trail. It seems odd to hear red winged blackbirds up here. At the edge of the plateau, a spring-green meadow is one “floor” down in a notch that curves south, with the scattered tops of oaks visible. I stand and let the wind buffet me as I gaze in every direction.

Views? Of course, this is the Gorge! The Columbia is at your feet and the town of Lyle is across the river. I'm not sure if you get the usual freeway noise here—the traffic is not visible and it was too windy to hear it, anyway.

From I-84 take the Mosier exit 69 or exit 76 for westbound traffic. Follow the Old Columbia River Highway to Rowena Crest State Park. Two trail leave from the Viewpoint—one is a thigh burner (that hill you see to the south) which we choose not to do because the clouds were so low as to spoil the view. Our hike out to the edge of the plateau was about two miles with only slight elevation loss.

The Past in Present Time-Part Two

Continuing on Highway 218 (a nice drive in late spring because of the wildflowers), our giant leap back in time began with a visit to the Clarno Unit of the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument. For three short hikes to experience the ancient past, stop at a roadside pullout marked only with a sign that says “Picnic Area Restrooms ½ Mile” about three miles beyond the John Day River bridge.

Upon stepping out of the car, we noted the pungent smell of sagebrush from recent rains and the bubbly sound of western meadowlarks, adding to the visual appeal of The Palisades just up the hill. The Trail of the Fossils loops up .2 mile for a look at fine plant fossils in the rock, dating from millions of years ago. Interpretive signs guide your viewing. To the left, another trail climbs .2 mile up to the rimrock for a look at petrified wood and a delicate arch. Another trail ties this area with the picnic area, signed to explain prehistoric events of the last 50 million years.

Wildflowers of spring include the showy mariposa lily. Look up to see swallows, rock wrens, ravens, falcons, red tail hawks and maybe even a Say's phoebe.

In my own history, I recall coming to this area as a child, long before this area became a national monument. Fossils were plentiful and there for the taking. I'm sure I picked up a few! Fossil collection now is strictly prohibited, but take with you all the pictures you want. You never know when time will creep up on you.

The Past in Present Time

The past tugs at our hearts and minds with eerie threads of fascination, seduction and haunting. We can't go back, yet we curiously seek out places of history, we become nostalgic for a time we never knew and we long for what seem to be simpler days. I contemplated these peculiarities during a spring outing in central Oregon, where the flood of moments passing by erodes the relics of time more slowly than on the we(s)t side of the state. Part one was a short hop, and part two a giant leap, back in time.

Our first stop was a dot on the map of central Oregon called Shaniko, located at the intersection of Highways 97 and 218. Billed as a ghost town, the locals (who are generally not ghosts) perpetuate the old west image by restoring old store fronts and displaying relics. This is not wholly disingenuous. The town's roots lie in the 1870's, when August Sherneckau, a German immigrant, opened a store and inn at what was then called Cross Hollows. Legend has it that difficulty pronouncing his name resulted in the morph to the town name of Shaniko.

A century ago, with horse and train travel as the major means of transportation, no one would have dreamed that ghost inhabitants would eventually take over here. Making a trip by horseback was slow-going compared to our 60 mile an hour trips of today. Waystations like Shaniko catered to the same needs as McDonalds and Motel 6 do now.

Train stations likewise created population centers. By 1900, Shaniko's train station buzzed with activity as the largest wool shipping center in the United States.

Now, except for traffic going by on the highway, there is not much in the way of activity in the tiny triangle of “downtown.” A two story brick hotel from the heydays remains and its restoration continues. Several other structures are reasonably intact, housing a few shops. If you are lucky, you might be able to poke around in one. While we were there, the owner of one closed antique store left a note on the door apologizing because she had to leave town to get groceries.

Just down narrow, windy Highway 218 is Antelope. The wooden structures here are less contrived and touristy. Fire and relocation of the railroad killed this town, but during the roaring 90's it was booming with 170 residents. The population is barely one-third that now.

"The past is a foreign country." But at least they speak English here.

Taken for "Grant"ed

Some time ago, I pretty much stopped watching TV and in particular, network TV news. I didn't do it on purpose, nor am I a fanatic about not watching--it just kind of happened. Every once in awhile, though, I am reminded why I've not missed it.

I've read that about 2 percent of the earth's surface is covered with cities. Close to 75 percent of the land surface is non-urban. Even assuming that these figures are close to the mark, there's a big world out there that doesn't have anything to do with what's going on in the city. Wildflowers are blooming. Spring migration is upon us. I have trouble limiting my interests to that tiny plot of pavement and highrises others seem so focused on.

So thanks, KATU, for confirming my drift away from the mainstream by firing Grant McOmie. Because no one in Oregon is interested in the outdoors. No one is interested in getting out of the city or suburbs, where all the crime and consumer woes happen. Wow, I didn't know I was quite that out of touch with my fellow Oregonians. But I guess that just leaves more of the outdoors for me.

Babbling Babes and Chicks

Baby birds babble. That's the conclusion of some scientists at MIT. This one doesn't come as a surprise to me, having read Donald Kroodsma's book, wherein he makes the same observation.

So when we're out in the field, we have to remember not only changes in plumage, but that we can hear some pretty strange things coming from the brush.

Kroodsma also points out that birds vocalize in local dialects. Black-capped chickadees' sound repertoire includes some whistled notes that vary from place to place. And try listening to common yellowthroats in different areas.

Just as I think I'm becoming a pretty decent birder......I continue to learn how much I don't know. As Kenn Kaufman has said, as humans we try to draw lines and categorize, whereas nature is fuzzy. My brain doesn't do well with fuzzy.